


The Need in Me

by cymbalism



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Derek Feels, First Time, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek has a crisis of conscience. Stiles has a filthy mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Need in Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lielabell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell/gifts).



> Written for lielabell for no other reason than because I love her. And she probably begged me to. Beta excellently provided by mattie4.

* * *

_You have the thing I love / but the need in me is way too much_  
If I open wide / one of us may be lost inside  
— “Me and Mr. Wolf,” The Real Tuesday Weld

 

For maybe the second time this week, Derek is flat on his back on Stiles's bed with Stiles draped over him. So far they're keeping everything above the covers and above the belt. Their clothes are on and it's all pretty innocent except for Stiles's wicked, hot mouth.

Derek hadn't meant for this to happen— _this_ meaning Stiles, of course—but it had. Stiles had pushed his way into Derek's awareness and didn't stop pushing until Derek didn't know how else to shut him up except to physically stop his lips from moving. In retrospect, he could've shoved a hand over Stiles's mouth, but Stiles probably would've just licked it. Which, considering they'd been hiding from a band of murderous hunters, would've blown their cover and gotten them killed. Kissing Stiles had been the better option, all things considered, because three weeks later they're still alive and still doing, well, _this_. And by _this_ Derek supposes he means making out like teenagers.

And for some reason that—after all this time—is when it hits him.

Stiles _is_ a teenager. Like an honest-to-god, I-have-school-in-the-morning teenager. How Derek could forget that, he doesn't know. Maybe it's all the running for their lives, all the bullets and threats and death. Does it matter how old you are when you're both fighting for your lives? But more likely, Derek ignored it, didn't want to know it. He's gotten pretty good at that.

Just then Stiles slides his legs to either side of Derek's hips, levering himself up onto his knees just enough to grind down, and, fuck—

Derek reaches up, getting a hand around the back of Stiles's neck to keep his mouth right where he wants it—because, God, he wants it. Stiles goes with it, allowing Derek's tongue deeper before pulling off to nip at Derek's bottom lip. He rocks his scrawny hips, shoving against Derek's hard-on, his spine dipping under Derek's hands. It's so good Derek has to take a second, biting his lip and tilting his head back with a groan. How Stiles even knows to do shit like that is . . .

Stiles does it again, this time not letting Derek's mouth off the hook, pushing his tongue in as his hips thrust. Derek's hands fasten on his ass, holding him tight, right there, just like that.

But, damn. Now that the thought is in his head, Derek can't shake it.

Derek hadn't had this when he was Stiles's age, secret make outs on his bed at home. There hadn't been a home. There hadn't been anyone to keep secrets from. Hell, Derek hadn't ever even gotten to be a teenager, not really. And thinking about why that was, about what had happened with Kate and everything after—

Shit.

Derek’s defining this kid's life, right here, right now. He, Derek Hale, is Stiles Stilinski's formative fucking experience.

At—crap, how does he not know this?—however old Stiles is, he's got a few more years until he's twenty, plus a handful more until he's really living on his own. And Sheriff Stilinski might not want to kill Derek for being a werewolf (at the moment) but he might for having sex with his son.

And the problem, Derek realizes as Stiles sucks at his ear and sneaks a thumb under the waist of Derek's jeans, is that Derek really, really wants to have sex with Sheriff Stilinski's son.

So that's when he pushes Stiles off.

He sits up, heart pounding and out of breath. He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know how to have this. Whatever the fuck _this_ is. And if he doesn't know any of that, he certainly can't keep going. There are ways this is supposed to happen for someone, and Derek's pretty sure that not only is he far from who Stiles should be doing _this_ with, he's also skipping a bunch of steps somewhere.

Stiles is tumbled back onto his elbows. He blinks at Derek from the end of the bed, forehead wrinkled in unspoken (for once) confusion.

"I don't want a boyfriend," Derek blurts.

Stiles' s jaw drops. "What?"

Derek grinds his teeth. Stiles is just laying there with his stocking feet and rumpled shirt, his legs sprawled open carelessly. He triggers Derek's every desire, from scent and taste and touch to something beyond his senses, pure selfish want. "I can't do this."

"This what?" Stiles asks, eyes narrowing. "What we always do? Plot to take down evil hunters? Make fun of Scott? Keep the town from being wiped out from giant, revenge-killing lizards?"

"Yes! I mean, no. I . . ." That's not what he means at all, but all that is part of it too, somehow. He couldn't do those things without wanting _this_. But if he had this, really had Stiles, could he still do what needs to be done? Could he fight and run and lie? Could he have Stiles and not lose part of himself? He doesn't think he can. And that's not a thing to saddle a high schooler with.

Derek turns away and scoots to the edge of the bed. He doesn't leave like he should, though. Just grips the edge of the mattress.

Stiles sits up. "I don't get it," he says, clearly trying to keep things light. "You like me. I like you . . ."

"You sound like you're in high school," Derek mutters.

"I _am_ in high school," Stiles protests and Derek's head falls into his hand, miserable.

"I know," he snaps. "That's the problem."

Stiles actually laughs. Just a short, incredulous burst followed by, "You've got to be kidding me."

Derek shoots him a look.

"Now? You're having this freak out _now_?" That stings, but Derek tries not to show it, keeping Stiles nailed under a hard stare. "Okay, fine," Stiles concedes. "Look at it this way, I'm above the age of consent in, like, forty out of fifty states."

"Something tells me that wouldn't stop your dad from arresting me," Derek mutters. "And, anyway, that's beside the point."

"Then what's the point, exactly? Because I'm pretty capable of making my own decisions and I'm only, like, two years from college."

"And what then?" Derek scoffs.

Stiles frowns. "I could stay here. Community college."

"Shut up, you're too smart for that." Derek glares. That's exactly what he's talking about—what if Stiles chucks away his future for him, for a head-fucked werewolf? Derek knows he's poison, knows he doesn’t exactly have his shit together. He's an adult and needs to get his own life, get free from his past, maybe get out of here again and away from these things he shouldn't want. He can't be someone's boyfriend. It's beyond stupid. He's too dangerous, too damaged. He lifts his eyes to see Stiles already staring back. But that doesn't change how much he wants what's currently right in front of him.

"Look, I don't know, okay?" Stiles starts. "I don't know how we make this happen, _if_ we make it happen. I mean, dude, you're a werewolf. You’re not even supposed to exist. So if you think I want you to meet me after school to go out for a milkshake with two straws, you're seriously wrong."

Derek glowers at him for that, but Stiles doesn't stop.

"I've never had a girlfriend, let alone a boyfriend, but I'm pretty sure _this_ ," he wags a hand between them, "is whatever we make it. And if we only make it after-school blow jobs, I'm alright with that. In fact, I'm, like, so good with that."

The idea makes Derek swallow and squeeze the mattress edge tighter. Damn this kid and his mouth.

"Bottom line, I'm a seventeen-year-old guy with a massively hot dude on my bed and I would really like to get laid someday, preferably someday soon, like today, and by you. So can we just agree that you're being a giant girl here and get back to the part where I was working up to taking off your pants?"

Derek doesn't move. Every muscle in his body is flexed tight. He feels the same way he does on the brink of a moon rise, an unsteady itch to shift, to run. He searches for control the only way he knows how and calls up the anger that locks him down and locks him in.

He bristles and snarls, internally shouting at himself to get off the bed, grab his jacket, walk out the door. It doesn't matter how much he wants this. He can't have it. He is literally the Big Bad Wolf drooling over this pretty kid.

Instead of flinching or cowering, Stiles just sighs in frustration. "You're actually going to make me do this, aren't you?" He gets his legs beneath him and paws forward. Ignoring Derek's stiff posture, he climbs right into his lap, forcing his knees between where Derek's hands clutch the mattress and his hips. Stiles runs his hands down Derek's arms, streaks of warmth over tensed muscle, and licks gently at Derek's bottom lip.

Then again, Derek doesn't remember Little Red Riding Hood begging to be eaten.

Stiles's hands clutch the hem of Derek's t-shirt and tug upward. Derek shuts his eyes and lets go of the mattress edge. His arms raise almost without his permission as Stiles's hands drag up his sides, pulling his shirt off. Derek lets his hands fall limply at Stiles's thighs. When he opens his eyes again, Stiles is beaming at him.

He dives forward for Derek's mouth this time, hands pressed at his chest, warm and broad. Derek kisses back. Because of course he does. Stiles shifts his hands, fingers wrapping to the outside of Derek's pecs, and drags one thumb over a nipple.

Lust floods Derek. He groans against it, but it's hardly a protest.

Stiles leans back to yank off his own shirt and then crashes into him again. His scent—anticipation, perspiration, pheromones. It makes Derek so hard so fast. Rather than meeting Derek's mouth Stiles ducks to lick at his neck. Derek fingers curl to grip Stiles's thighs and he feels Stiles's lips bend into a smile. He kisses at the arch of his shoulder, sucks at Derek's ear lobe, and bites lightly, playfully. And that's it. That scrape of teeth over his skin, the tingle of threat, the tease of hunger—

Derek's grabs hold of Stiles's body and stands. He turns and drops Stiles back on the bed, climbing over him, and he hears Stiles's heartbeat pick up its pace in triumph as he kisses him into the mattress.

Stiles cups a hand over Derek's erection, pushing hard to make it felt through the denim. Derek thrusts into it, any kind of self-control and thought of consequences gone. When Stiles pops the button on his jeans, Derek can only help him.

They're out of their clothes in seconds, but Stiles doesn't waste another one, doesn't allow Derek a second thought. He gets hold of Derek's dick and pulls him close, pulls him down until he get his hand around them both. Derek pants, at a loss over how Stiles can just _take_ and _do_ everything Derek doesn't have the guts to. Almost like he read Derek's mind, Stiles reaches for his hand and brings it between their bodies, guiding his fingers into place around them even as he lets go. Derek freezes for a second, heart in his throat, but Stiles kisses him and squeezes his own hand around Derek's setting a stroke.

Derek already knows how much he wants Stiles—so much, too much—but it doesn't occur to him until that moment, stupidly, that he might need him. That this sarcastic little shit of a kid who can be scared of his own shadow could also have more courage than Derek on his best day.

Stiles keeps kissing Derek's mouth and neck but lets go of his hand, silently letting him work their cocks until it's hot and sticky between them. At some point Derek slowly slides off to the side, keeping his hand on Stiles but shifting his weight. He turns his palm, curves his fingers downward, around Stiles's balls. Stiles break off a kiss to moan and spread his legs. He moves his hand over Derek's and pushes it lower.

"No." Derek jerks his hand back. "Not without— I'm not hurting you."

Stiles eyes widen as he realizes Derek's not saying no. "Dude," he says, scrabbling to the side of the bed and his nightstand. "I am so ready for this."

He grabs lube and a condom from a drawer, dumps a pile of gel on Derek's fingers, and guides his hand to where he wants it. Derek does it on his own, though. He touches gently and just rubs at first, strokes over the jumpy muscle until Stiles is sighing and squirming but relaxed. That's when he pushes one finger into Stiles's body, guilt and hunger swirling inside him, neither quite able to overpower the feel of how tight Stiles is, or the sound of his groan.

"Fuck, Derek. That's so much better than when I do it."

Derek collapses, breath knocked out of him. This kid and his fucking _mouth_.

"Keep going," Stiles orders, "Move, move, move."

He doesn't say please. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to. Derek just does it. He wants to do it anyway. And for all Derek hates orders, hates being told what to do or how to act, hates being told how to lead or how to be better, right now he wants this, loves this—Stiles's bossy, demanding commands telling him what to do, where to move, coaxing him on, stroking his hair and neck, rewarding him with hot open-mouthed kisses.

"You ready?" Stiles asks, panting. "Because I am so ready." He reaches down to wrap his long fingers around Derek's cock. They're dry, but his his touch hardens Derek, dick straining tight in Stiles's hand. Derek is beyond ready.

He sits back and whips Stiles over, pulling him by the hips onto his knees. "Whoa!" Stiles flails, but compiles. Derek rolls on the condom quickly, eyeing Stiles to make sure he stays put. His fingers shake as he watches Stiles grip his own cock and strip a hand down it before bracing himself on his elbows.

Derek tests him with two fingers, dragging over that spot that Stiles tremble, and then pushes in. "Fuck," Derek curses, biting his lip. He has to give it a minute before he moves, before he's sure Stiles can take it. He pulls out a fraction only to sink in again. Stiles cries out and shoots a look at Derek back over his shoulder.

"Oh my God, do you even know how hot you are?" he blurts as he crumples into the mattress. Derek doesn't, and doesn't care. But he knows how hot Stiles is as he fucks into him, how firm his ass is in his hand, how tight he fits, the bend of his spine, the spatter of freckles across his back. Derek's losing control. He feels his barriers tumble as he gives way to the want, the wolf, feels his fangs slip out, his claws dig into Stiles.

"Oh, fuck! Derek! Oh my God," Stiles shouts, one hand flying back to latch onto his wrist. Derek panics for a second, afraid he broke the skin, scared him. But, "Don't you fucking stop," Stiles orders him. He groans and rolls his ass up hard around Derek's cock. "Don't even think— Oh my God, _fuck_."

His whole body tenses, convulses, and Derek smells it, Stiles's come. A growl rips from him and before he even knows what he's done, he has Stiles flipped on his back again, hips still thrusting up uncontrollably as he comes, and Derek's licking at the thick white liquid, tonguing his cock, his abdomen, memorizing his taste.

Stiles whimpers, but Derek can hear it's pleasure not pain, and it drives him. He takes Stiles's mouth, heedless of his fangs and forces him to taste himself, to share this thing, to know that it means he's Derek's now—he has Stiles's taste, his scent, knows what it is to be in his body, part of him. And Stiles might be too young, and Derek might not be ready for this, but there's no going back now.

"Do it," Stiles breathes as his heartbeat begins to slow. "Come in me, on me, whatever. Just do it. Want you to do it."

Derek feels his eyes flare and watches as Stiles not only doesn't flinch but grins.

The mental image of coming across Stiles's chest and coating him in his scent makes his head spin, but he won't do that, not yet. He isn't so far gone he's forgotten what Stiles wanted in the first place.

Derek leans down to kiss Stiles one more time, then lifts his hips, his body lank and pliant in his hands. He wraps Stiles's knees around his sides, then pauses, taking a moment to savor the sight of this young man who smells like sex and trust and has the power to shape Derek's whole future. He strokes himself to full hardness again, pausing right before he does it. Stiles bites his lip and nods. Derek slides in and gives himself over to Stiles.

If this is what they make of it, Derek's determined to make it good. For both of them.

— end —


End file.
